


An Expressive and Meaningful Silence

by yellow_craion



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Autistic Aziraphale, Autistic Crowley, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Couch Cuddles, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Noah's Ark, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Nonverbal Communication, Overstimulation, Platonic Cuddling, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-07-27
Packaged: 2020-07-23 00:34:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20001052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellow_craion/pseuds/yellow_craion
Summary: Two scenes, centuries apart, of the angel and the demon sharing comfort.For the prompt: mamihlapinatapei - the look between two people in which each loves the other but is too afraid to make the first move.A slightly different interpretation of the meaning also exists: "It is that look across the table when two people are sharing an unspoken but private moment. When each knows the other understands and is in agreement with what is being expressed. An expressive and meaningful silence."





	An Expressive and Meaningful Silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Basmathgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basmathgirl/gifts).



> TW for two mentions of self-harming stims, but I dare say it's minimal.
> 
> Great big thank you for my beta and sensitivity reader brokenfannibal <3

1.

It is a warm cloudless night with no moonlight to guide the way, when Crowley comes into the human settlement. Black robes help him blend into the darkness, and he makes use of the opportunity to observe without being spotted.

The assignment from Hell is simple: to spread doubt among the people, maybe get a nice conflict going out of it, if possible. He is good at asking questions, so Crowley thinks he can manage.

Only, when he arrives, he finds the people have doubt and discord well in hand themselves, without any demonic assistance. The boat is slowly taking shape, but with accusations and distrust flying around, it may not be built in time for the oncoming flood.

Thus, the demon finds himself in a peculiar position of helping Noah round up the animals and speed up the building process. He stays in the background, not drawing too much attention. A bit of a temptation here, a little nudge there, and the food supplies are bigger by a third.

He has things under control.

On the big day he’s out and about, helping the kids herd the animals in, when he spots a familiar figure. The angel who gave his flaming sword away. The most intriguing creature of them all. This one was not like all the other rule abiding, cold soldiers and since their brief encounter in the Garden of Eden, Crowley couldn’t get him out of his mind.

And here he is now, in the little crowd, watching.

Crowley keeps an eye on him, staying out of sight himself. He imagines talking with him, acting as if he showed here himself, just to see Aziraphale’s reaction. Is he here on orders, to make sure people die according to plan? He’s too kind for that… at least Crowley hopes so.

Eventually he does just that. Comes up and strikes up a conversation.

He’s disappointed when Aziraphale tells him not to question the great plan, but there’s something else going on, a tension on the angel’s face, a look like he just ate something sour and would rather spit it out into the dirt than swallow.

He’s not sure what it is. He can’t be. But he decides to take it as a good sign anyway.

Being a demon, Crowley doesn’t trust easily. Or, at all. The Fall, and subsequent life in Hell taught him that trust is the first thing to be used against anybody. So he doesn’t mention his involvement in building the Arc, or his plan to stowaway all the kids inside the bowels of the ship.

He may be curious, but he’ll be damned if he’s stupid.

The weather changes abruptly. It has never been this bad. Rightfully so, it couldn’t have been, as rain itself has only been invented rather recently and thunder followed just a few decades ago. It is pouring from the sky, turning soil into mud, then swamp, then a lake, until there’s nothing but water for as far as the eye can see. The relentless pitter patter of rain goes on for days. There are no more fields, no more forests, and whatever remains from the human settlement floats away with the rising water, or sinks to the bottom.

The only structure that remains is a boat.

Crowley’s down in the lower level, looking for a place to crash, when he hears familiar voices. Peeking around some crates, he sees Aziraphale perched on one of the wooden boxes, a little girl on his lap. He can’t make out the specific words, so he inches closer...

...and is promptly spotted by the child, who squeals and points at him.

He watches, a little concerned, when the angel and the girl whisper to each other and then the girl scampers away, leaving the two of them alone.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale nods in greeting and stands up.

The demon’s too worn out to speak. He opens his mouth, but the sounds are too heavy on his tongue. And then, the idea that he has to make them into coherent words on top of that!

He gives up and hisses in frustration. It’s no use. Instead, he gets back to surveying the place and just lets his scowl speak for him.

“What you did,” the angel smiles and Crowley raises an eyebrow. Aziraphale looks briefly to the side, and fidgets on the spot, twisting his fingers together in front of himself. “You helped them save the kids. I’m… I’m glad you did.”

_Are you?_ Crowley wants to ask, but doesn’t. Can’t. He needs a break. He needs to stop.

His brain needs to stop. Except, in all the hundreds of years he’s been alive so far, he hasn’t found a way actually relax when he’s like this. The pounding headache is becoming too much but there’s no escaping it.

He wishes he didn't feel so much.

He makes a slow beeline to a spot behind some crates, not bothering to check if Aziraphale is still talking or not. The place is good enough for now. Out of the way, in a corner, barricaded with a wall of barrels and boxes.

Exhaustion takes over the demon, where it was fury and fear earlier. He crumples on the wooden floor and presses his back against the rough wall. He shakes his head and buries his face in his knees. With clenched jaw, he glares up, hoping to be left alone.

He digs his fingertips into his scalp, when that’s apparently not going to happen, and the angel perches at one of the barrels.

Crowley could have exploded from all the emotions. Part of him wishes he has. Turning into a lifeless splatter on the ground would have been much easier than stowing away as many kids as possible into the bowels of the Arc, all the while hiding from Noah’s family, and with no help from the angel at that.

Damn bugger couldn’t have been bothered to whip up a miracle until the very last moment.

His breath hitches when he remembers how the children screamed, and he digs in his fingertips harder. He can still feel the terror in the air. Heavy and oppressive. It may as well have been another miracle that he managed to do anything, to save anybody, with fear choking him as it did. He was ready to collapse from the weight of it. The one thing that kept him going was certainty of what standing idly by would lead to.

A demon, saving lives - they would laugh him out of Hell if they only knew.

Then again, what he did was against Heaven. Aziraphale made that quite clear when he defended the plan to drown everybody, that all of it was Almighty’s plan and they should not question it. If that was true - and Crowley had no reason to doubt the angel’s word - he thinks God would feel right at home down in Hell.

“Crowley! Stop, you’re hurting yourself.”

He looks up at the quiet voice, confused. His eyes sting from the tears, but when he closes them, all he can see are the faces…

The angel is crouching in front of him, all soft edges and warm smile. He pulls Crowley’s hands down and only then does he realize he’s been pulling at his hair in frustration.

“Let me,” Aziraphale puts his fingertips to Crowley’s forehead and just like that, the headache is gone. He’s no longer tired.

“Better?”

It is.

Crowley’s eyelids droop, as he’s feeling himself melt away into unconsciousness.

  
2.

It is a warm afternoon in September, like so many recently, that has a few people wander into Aziraphale’s bookshop. He’s pleased with the company, as they are mostly quiet, and careful of his books. He actually has to part with one, an old edition of an anatomy atlas - not particularly accurate, not by any stretch of imagination, but beautifully made, with sketches spilling onto the text. It’s a little sad to see a book leave his shop, but he’s also glad to find it a good home. He can tell, the nice lady with a cane and warm eyes will take good care of it. And Aziraphale does have one more copy saved upstairs, just for himself.

One thing about September is that as warm and sunny the days are, the nights can get quite cold. But that’s quite alright, because there’s few things better to do than curling up by the fireplace with a blanket draped over his lap, a teacup by his side and a book in his hand.

Yes, he smiles to himself - a small, private smile, as he thinks about how he’s going to spend his evening - and hands the lady her change and a paper bag for the atlas.

The little bell over the entrance rings, drawing their attention, and in walks Crowley.

Aziraphale watches closely as he saunters along the display, his steps quick but not as graceful as they usually are. The angel frowns, concerned.

He’s just about to walk into Aziraphale, when he makes a sharp turn and hisses right in the nice lady’s face, making her step back and blink in surprise. 

“Crowley,” he admonishes quietly. “That’s not very nice, is it?”

The demon doesn’t say anything. He keeps his hands in his pockets, and just raises an eyebrow above the rim of his dark sunglasses, unimpressed.

The woman throws a glance between them both, then leaves.

“Have a nice day!” Aziraphale calls after her with a little wave goodbye, but she doesn’t stop to respond. The little bell sounds again, and the door shuts behind her.

“How about some tea?” He leads the way to the back room, already considering what food to order. He looks over his shoulder, eyebrows high, when there’s no response. “Crowley?”

The demon nods, then shrugs, and finally takes a seat on the armchair in the corner. 

“Not in the mood for talking today?”

A weak nod.

“Did something happen, or just…?”

Crowley turns his face to the side with a sour expression, his eyes still obscured by his thick sunglasses. He gestures to the floor with one finger, while his legs stretch out in front of him, and he’s practically laying in the armchair, which is quite an accomplishment, considering the high and stiff back rest it has.

The angel bites his lip. Something other demons did, then. He’s not sure how bad it is, but decides not to rush just yet. It’s always worrisome, no matter what the downstairs are up to, but there’s a difference between an Apocalypse and regular nastiness.

He trusts Crowley would let him know if it was something that needed his intervention.

“I’ll make us a pot, and if you’d rather you can, oh,” he scrunches up his face. It’s an expression that the demon called adorable on that one occasion, thinking Aziraphale could not hear him, the memory of which still makes something inside the angel flutter with glee. 

He waves a hand in the air, “uh, just turn it into whiskey or something.”

Crowley always liked the liquid diet, the angel muses, as he turns back to him and puts a kettle of water up to boil. In the meantime he gathers the teacups and the spoons on the little glass tray, together with sugar and some honey from a farmer shop he frequents. 

Hot steam from the kettle is the only sign the water is suitably hot. That, and the bubbling inside of course; Aziraphale never liked those whistling contraptions people tended to stuck up on any and every kettle they produced. Much too jarring a noise. That’s why he’s still holding on to this old kettle he bought in the 1960s, a literal miracle keeping it intact and in good shape.

He puts the tray with everything on their table, then goes back for the medium sized rounded pot he left on the counter. With practiced ease, he spoons out a portion of a Darjeeling blend into a small steeping ball and closes it with a soft click.

The pot and ball in one hand, and the kettle in another, he makes his way to the table once more. The water is bubbling still, though weakly. 

He pours it slowly into the pot, enjoying the soft splashing sounds against the porcelain.

“I may still have a few slices of an apple tart, if you’re interested?” Aziraphale glances to see an answer. When it’s a soft shake of the head, he steps back to put the empty kettle away in its place. “Alright,” he doesn’t force it, but still rummages in the cupboard after what’s left of the cake. “I’ll have some, though. If you don’t mind?” He asks, facing Crowley with a piece of the tart on a plate.

Crowley grunts and waves a hand to the table, in a lazy ‘go ahead’ gesture.

The angel beams at him and finally takes a seat.

Silence they share is peaceful and only occasionally interrupted by soft clinking of the porcelain, when Aziraphale pours out the brewed tea, and they drink. There are no words they need to exchange. Not every quiet needs to be filled with conversation, and the two of them, they have all of the time to get into philosophical debates or playful banter.

Some time after there are but crumbs left on the plate and remnants of tea grow cold, Crowley stands. He reaches a hand out for Aziraphale and waits for him to get up as well, then leads him, leisurely by the hand, towards a sofa.

The angel sits down first, but when he looks up, Crowley is not actually joining him on either side. Standing over him, he takes his glasses and tosses them onto one of the cushions, so it’s a safe distance away. He lowers himself, so that his legs bend on each side of the angel and he’s effectively sitting on his lap, facing him. Finally, he leans in, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face in the crook of his shoulder - the fabric of the angel’s vest is warm and fuzzy.

Crowley is wrapped around Aziraphale as surely, as the angel’s scent is around Crowley.

Aziraphale hums and closes his eyes when Crowley’s fingers tangle in his curls, gently but firmly, and waits for the demon’s body to sag in his arms, as he’s running his flat palms over his back.

It will, soon enough.


End file.
